


stay_with_me.jpg

by panacea_knits, the_genderman



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Explicit Consent, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-02-29 13:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18779509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panacea_knits/pseuds/panacea_knits, https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_genderman/pseuds/the_genderman
Summary: POUGHKEEPSIE, NEW YORKJanuary 1947Steve turns the tap on cold, wincing at the water running over his palm. It's not even necessary, probably—little burn like this, he'll be healed up in minutes—but old habits die hard. Stick your hand on a stove burner, you run cold water on it. That's what his Ma taught him to do. It's what a person does.“I'm sorry—” Bucky's choked-off voice comes from the kitchen doorway, where he's standing stock-still, looking at Steve with wide eyes and clutching his left arm to his side. He's wearing long sleeves, like always, and it's just past five but the sun's already going down, last light glinting off the metal of his left hand.[A canon-divergent ace!fic by panacea_knits for RBB 2019, art by the_genderman]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Welcome!
> 
> This fic is set in an alternate post-TFA timeline in which Steve and Bucky were both found/rescued shortly after the end of WWII.
> 
> Asexuality is a primary theme, and the story depicts some intense stress, confusion and self-criticism around this subject. You can find a point-by-point plot summary in the end notes of each chapter, if you'd like a thorough heads-up before deciding whether to read. Overall you can expect a lot of angst to start with, a very happy ending, and zero sexual content. 💜
> 
> Art in Chapter 2 is by [the_genderman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_genderman/pseuds/the_genderman). 
> 
> **the_genderman says:**
> 
> I had a lot of fun making this art, challenging myself with a limited palette, and a lot of fun collaborating and happy screaming about acefic.
> 
> **panacea_knits says:**
> 
> I was so fortunate to get my first choice slide in the RBB claims, and I hope I've been able to do the artwork justice. Thank you to the_genderman not only for creating this wonderful art, but also for providing key plot input as well as beta reading.
> 
> FYI, I (panacea_knits) am asexual and this fic is based somewhat on aspects of my identity and somewhat not. Experiences of asexuality are as varied as the people who identify this way! Comments are welcome from everyone of course, but I would be especially delighted to hear from other ace-spectrum folks if this fic resonated with you. 💖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot spoilers in the end note. 💜

**POUGHKEEPSIE, NEW YORK**

**January 1947**

Steve turns the tap on cold, wincing at the water running over his palm. It's not even necessary, probably—little burn like this, he'll be healed up in minutes—but old habits die hard. Stick your hand on a stove burner, you run cold water on it. That's what his Ma taught him to do. It's what a person does.

“I'm sorry—” Bucky's choked-off voice comes from the kitchen doorway, where he's standing stock-still, looking at Steve with wide eyes and clutching his left arm to his side. He's wearing long sleeves, like always, and it's just past five but the sun's already going down, last light glinting off the metal of his left hand.

Bucky's gaze darts from Steve's face to his hand, then to the stove and back again. Steve looks away. Spilled soup drips from the front of the stove onto the floor.

Steve turns off the tap and dries his hands, dabbing gingerly at his palm even though it doesn't hurt anymore. It should, though—his body knows it should and the wrongness makes his stomach churn. Despite it all he keeps his voice light and steady when he speaks, no trace of upset:

“I'll just clean this up and make something else—”

“But Steve—”

“It's fine, Buck, I'm fine, see? Already healed.” He holds his hand up, palm out, so Bucky can see the faded pink circles.

Bucky whimpers and the sound makes Steve feel even more ill; it's the kind of sound Bucky used to make all the time when they first got here, to this little 2-bedroom bungalow in the middle of the woods—Peggy'd set them up out here to recuperate after she’d hauled Steve out of the frozen sea and the two of them had raided Zola's lab, found Bucky there crouched in a cell with his hair hanging over his face, just skin and bones and a _metal fucking arm—_

_Fuck, fuck, come back, come back._

Steve takes a calming breath and makes his voice as soothing as possible. His smile must be coming out all wrong, forced and crooked, but he presses on:

“No harm done, okay, pal? You just startled me, is all—”

Bucky makes a strangled sound, turns on his heel and disappears into his bedroom.

Steve wets a dish towel in the sink and wills himself not to cry.

 

~~~~~~ (((Bucky))) ~~~~~~

 

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck._

Bucky sinks to the ground with his back to the door, tips his head back and closes his eyes. Tears stream down his cheeks and he lifts his hand to—fuck, wrong side, _fuck._

The sound of Steve cleaning up in the kitchen filters through the door. What a goddamn mess—it's bad enough Steve’s scared of him but the fact he's _lying about it_ —

Bucky was just reaching for the salt, is all, when his arm brushed against Steve's—just for a second, it was an accident, it _was—_ and Steve jumped about a foot in the air, tipped his pot over and put his hand down on the fucking burner and he's got the gall to say it's _fine_ and he was just _startled_ , it's—

It's such a bald-faced lie it's practically insulting. Steve doesn't startle, never has—too goddamn stubborn before, and now? Now he's got every square inch of the property on his radar—Bucky's all juiced up too but Steve is something else, reacts to things Bucky hasn't even registered yet. Point is, he doesn't fucking _startle,_ what he does is _lurch away like it physically hurts him_ if Bucky so much as breathes too close—

It wasn't supposed to end up like this. He was supposed to wait _._ Steve was supposed to _wait_ and Bucky was supposed to come home from the war and they were supposed to pick back up doing—whatever it was they'd been doing, calling each other little pet names and holding onto their hugs a little too long, it's—

There was something _there,_ god dammit, and now it's gone and it's all Bucky's goddamn fault, it must be, he must have fucked it up somewhere along the way, he—

If Steve doesn't like to be touched anymore, that's fine, that's _fine,_ it's—Bucky's done it with girls and he's done it with guys but it's never been his favorite thing, more like a tax you pay for the privilege of talking and dancing and leaning in a little too close like a secret, all proprietary—he would have done it with Steve if Steve wanted but Bucky always got the feeling he didn't, took to thinking that might be something they had in common, a sort of disinterest—something that had drawn them to each other somehow—

Fuck, it doesn't matter now.

Steve keeps saying it's fine and it's okay but they're not fine, they haven't been fine since—since Steve turned up at that fucking torture farm with his giant body and all of a sudden he was keeping his distance and making eyes at Carter and okay, okay, you know what, it doesn't matter.

Maybe Bucky'd misread the whole thing in the first place—though God, how could you misread that, Steve blushing like a fire truck and ducking his head—but maybe Steve's procedure did something, or—or hell, maybe it was just that he never had options before, though Bucky'd never understood why, prettiest goddamn thing in all of Brooklyn—oh well, oh well, whatever it was, it's different now and Steve can hardly stand the sight of him, and how fucking dare he? The goddamn hypocrite—he's as much a lab rat as Bucky is, he's got no _right—_

Bucky jumps up all at once and almost rips the door off its hinges. He stomps back into the kitchen and Steve's at the dinner table and there's a plate at Bucky's place and Steve looks _distraught_ but not _startled_ because he _doesn't fucking startle_ —

“You have got to stop lying to me!”

Steve swallows his bite of sandwich and puts his hands up like Bucky's got a gun pointed at him, the unmitigated _asshole—_

“I'm not lying, Buck, I swear. I'm fine, we're fine—”

“We are not _fine!_ Or, shit, maybe you are”—God, he hadn't thought of that, that would be worse—“Is this _fine_ for you? You _like_ me walking around feeling like—like some kind of bomb or something, like one wrong move and you'll—it's—fuck, Steve, would you put your goddamn hands down? What is it you think I'm going to do? I'd never—Steve I'd never hurt you. I'd die before I'd hurt you, don't you know that? Is it—do you think they did something else to me? They didn't, okay? You saw the files, I know they were going to try to—to _turn me_ somehow or—Steve—Steve they didn't, please, I'd never—I'll never—”

Bucky’s babbling and it's so fucking pathetic but he can't seem to stop and Steve is just sitting there like he's frozen in place with his mouth just barely open and God, Bucky's so fucking tired.

“You know what, forget it. It's past time I moved out, anyway.”

Saying the words feels like dropping cinder blocks on his own feet and he grits his teeth, but Steve just kind of hiccups, damn him—like usual, then, Bucky's gotta do all the talking.

“I'm just about strong enough to work, now. I'll get by. You did a good job, okay? You're absolved of your sins. I know how you get, I know you feel guilty but you shouldn't. It's not your fault I fell, you don't have to torture yourself keeping me here when it's so obvious you don't want me around. I can't stand seeing you scared of me like this—”

“I'm not _scared—”_

“Liar, you—”

“Buck, I swear— _”_

“Fine! Fine, so you're not scared. You're just looking at me like that, like I'm—what is it, then? What are you? Disgusted? Ashamed?”

Bucky's snarling now and Steve looks like he might cry and just fuck this, fuck everything.

“No, God, I'm none of those things, Buck, I—”

“You never used to lie to me, Stevie.”

He says it so soft, makes himself so gentle, so nonthreatening—if this doesn't work, nothing will, Bucky hasn't called him _Stevie_ since before the war—

Steve looks down at his plate and that's when Bucky knows he was right: Steve doesn't want him anymore, he's just too caught up in his goddamn martyr/savior complex to say so.

Bucky turns and grabs his jacket, shoves on his boots and gloves—maybe he should wear gloves around the house, too, maybe that would that help, keep it hidden—no, won't matter, he's leaving, this is Steve's house, or technically it's Carter’s—God, maybe she'll move in, _fuck,_ is that all they've been waiting for—

“I'm going for a walk. Don't wait up.”

He slams out the front door and fuck it's cold, sun gone down now and the wind up—Bucky pulls the collar of his jacket around his throat and crunches down the snowy walkway that winds toward the road.

 

~~~~~~ (((Steve))) ~~~~~~

 

Steve thinks his heart may have stopped.

Wait, no—there it is.

Huh.

Does it even matter, at this point? Maybe a heartbeat's just a formality now _—_

Ah, shit. Bucky forgot his scarf. He'll be cold. There's more color in his cheeks these days but still, with the arm...

Steve pushes his chair out from the table and walks to the door, grabs Bucky's scarf off the hook, steps out...but of course he's gone by now, just footprints in the snow.

He'll come back.

_Please God, let him come back._

Steve could call out, probably, or find him—it's just trees in every direction, no neighbors for miles, wouldn't be hard—could probably hear him from here, even, if he really tried, but what would be the point?

_This can't be happening, it just can't..._

Cold air rushes over his bare toes and Steve steps back and shuts the door. He doesn't mind the chill but Bucky's always tucking his feet up under himself on the sofa and—

Steve chokes back a sob and hangs Bucky's scarf back up, careful not to snag it, smoothing down the fringe—if only he could touch Bucky like this, he'd be so so careful, he'd—

Bucky's got it all twisted, thinks Steve wants him gone when really he's dying inside from how badly he needs—God, just to touch him, hold his hand—hold them both, maybe, if Bucky'd let him—run his fingers over each palm, ask him, _what does it feel like, does it hurt, is there anything that feels nice, what can I do—_

And then Bucky would groan and they'd—they'd kiss or something and—they never got this far before but Steve knows how it goes, you're touching and then you're kissing and then—

You're supposed to want the stuff that comes after that, is the thing, that's how it works and Bucky'll—guy like Bucky, so smooth and—just the way he _moves_ , of course he'll want _—_

Steve should want more, too, but he doesn't...and how can he possibly explain? That he can't—that he wants—it doesn't make any sense, what he wants. It doesn't even make sense to him, how will it ever make sense to Bucky? How he wants-but-doesn't.

If he could just…either turn down one kind of want or turn up the other kind, if only he came with dials like one of Howard's machines—

He could've managed, before, maybe, either not being with Bucky or being with him all the way, it's just...he'd always known something was off, but after the serum it was multiplied tenfold: stepping out of the chamber he could feel the air moving on every inch of his skin, Peggy's touch like a spark so intense it practically burned, overwhelming already and yet he wanted so much more, had to stop himself leaning into it, _please God do that again_ , and at the same time that look in her eyes, an implication there of a different kind of desire and his whole body screamed _no no no no no_ —

He'd done so wrong by her, kept her guessing, led her on because once word got out it kept his admirers at a distance and gave him an excuse not to think about Bucky and he thought maybe, maybe, he could survive on half of everything he wanted but then…

Then Bucky had gone and goddamn _died_ , and then Steve had died too and maybe this is all just a fever dream, maybe he's in hell, but no, that can't be, it was too real...when they'd found Bucky in the cell, Steve on his knees with his face in Bucky's hair and Bucky's knuckles pressed to his lips, over and over, _Buck, Buck, are you in there, Bucky I'm here, Bucky sweetheart I'm here_ —his senses so alive to Bucky's smell and his taste and the sound of his breathing, and then suddenly he'd realized what he was doing, what he was saying out loud, and with Peggy right there—

She'd been chilly with him, after, but her actions spoke of a forgiveness he hadn't yet had the courage to ask for: setting them up in the house, on payroll for this organization she's founding, they're _consultants_ or something, God—she calls every couple of weeks to check in and her voice is clipped but she makes sure they have what they need. Eventually Steve will have to ask, what exactly she wants from them, why she's doing this—then again if he loses Bucky now it won't matter, he'll just—he'll just disintegrate, there won't be anything left to hold on to—

Steve stumbles to the bathroom and opens the cabinet but it's just Bucky's meds in there, serum-grade painkillers and whatever else the doctors have him on, keeping him stable while his body heals _—_ he's so much stronger now, it's true, maybe he's right, maybe they should be apart—but no, that can't be right _—_ God, why can't they just go _back—_

Steve's head doesn't even hurt, no need for a pill. He would have needed one, before—used to get such awful headaches when he cried. Bucky knew he couldn't help it, so he never teased, just came over all quiet and pressed a cool washcloth to Steve's forehead—always had done, even when they were kids. But then in those last weeks before Bucky shipped out he'd whisper while he did it, _there you go, honey_ , and his hand would drag a little too slow over Steve's cheek and Steve's heart would be flying up somewhere near the ceiling—and that was before everything got all _magnified,_ God, if Bucky touched him like that now he might just up and die all over again—

None of this makes any goddamn sense.

What is it that he's supposed to do?

It was a test, just now, when Bucky said _Stevie_ , it was a test and Steve failed and now Bucky's gone, and sure Steve could run after him, fall at his feet and cry and beg, _Bucky I love you, Bucky don't leave_ , but then what?

That's what it always comes back to: then what? He's thought it through so many times but in the end it's always the same: Steve loves Bucky and Bucky loves Steve and people who love each other do things Steve doesn't want to do—not just doesn't want to, can't, won't—not with anyone, not even with Bucky. Not even to make Bucky stay.

It's as simple as that, no way around it, but of course Bucky's gone and gotten it into his head that Steve _hates him_ or thinks he's some kind of monster and that won't do. That won't—he won't let him leave like that. Not thinking those things.

If he has to go, he'll damn well go knowing how precious he is.

Steve’s feet feel like they're made of lead but he drags himself into his room and sifts through the canvases leaning against the wall. He keeps them all covered—not that Bucky's ever been in here, he wouldn't come in without permission—Steve’s barely seen inside Bucky's room since he got strong enough to get himself in and out of bed—

_Ah, there it is._

This one he'd done early on after Bucky came home, before they'd cleaned him up and cut his hair. Steve had been so full of righteous anger, painted in reds like blood and fire and sunrise.

He takes the painting out to the kitchen table, wraps it carefully in brown paper and ties it with a string. Then he leans it in the doorway of Bucky's room and collapses back into his own bed.

There's another sob building in his chest but he's too exhausted to let it out, so it just stays in there and rots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 plot spoilers: In this chapter, Steve and Bucky have an argument because Steve is constantly flinching away from Bucky's touch, yet insists everything is fine. Bucky announces he is going to move out, and storms out of their shared home. Steve is convinced Bucky will not want to be with him because he (Steve) is unwilling to have a sexual relationship with anyone. Bucky, likewise, thinks Steve is only keeping him around out of guilt/pity/etc. Steve leaves out a painting for Bucky to find when he comes back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Art chapter!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot spoilers in the end note. 💜

Bucky quiets his footfalls as he heads back up the drive. Steve doesn't sleep real well at the best of times, wouldn't want to wake him. Maybe he won't be asleep, though, maybe he'll just be sitting on the sofa and Bucky can walk in and say _sorry_ and _I went too far—_ he's not gonna move out, or—fuck, maybe he is, maybe—God, this is all such a mess.

If he could just get Steve to _talk—_ it's always been like pulling teeth to get him started, but it used to be that once he got going he wouldn't stop, so goddamn opinionated about everything—maybe it could be like that again if Bucky could just find the right thread to pull, get him started unraveling.

Bucky steps into the house, toes off his boots and sets his coat and gloves down by the door. Steve left the light on in the bathroom—used to get after Bucky about that, leaving lights on, not like him to—

Hang on. There's something in the doorway—it's gotta be a painting, one of Steve's...what is this, some kind of parting gift—?

Bucky stands in the hall and unwraps the package. He turns the painting over, and every gear in his mind grinds to a halt. It doesn't make sense—there's no fear or pity here, it's—that looks like _pride_ in Steve's stance and he's _holding Bucky's hand, how can—_

Just then the door to Steve's room opens and Steve steps out, looking all rumpled in his soft tank and sleep pants and his eyes are red—

“Steve, what is this?”

“Oh. It's, um. Something I made, a while ago.”

“Well _obviously_ it's something you—God, that's not what I'm asking—”

Bucky cuts himself off and leans the painting carefully against the wall. He doesn't want to be angry anymore. Things feel different in the dark and Steve looks so vulnerable, usually he's dressed in day clothes when they see each other—

“Steve. Can you please at least _try_ to explain? I don't—I used to be able to read you like a book, but now I got no idea what's going on. Please. Please talk to me.”

Steve gives him a pained look. “Um. I just wanted you to...to know how I feel, I guess...”

“But Steve...if this is how you feel then how come you won't let me anywhere near you? Is it the arm? Is it—is it all this?”

On impulse Bucky reaches down and pulls his shirt off, the arm and the scars on display, all of them—Steve's eyes go wide and he steps forward and reaches out but then he—God, he changes his mind or something, he's backing away— _recoiling_ , more like, he looks like he might be sick and Bucky just about sobs. He starts struggling to get back into his shirt but of course it's inside out, it'll tear if he's not careful—

“Fuck, fuck, forget it, of course it's this, I'm sorry—it's not natural, I know, it's—I'll be out of your hair, won't have to look at me anymore—”

“Bucky, please—”

Steve chokes off and Bucky waits a beat but there's nothing. This was a mistake, he’s still holding his balled-up shirt and he just feels so ridiculous—

“Please what, Steve? What? If you have something to say, for the love of God say it now.”

And maybe he got it right that time, finally, because Steve looks right into his eyes as the words spill out fast and urgent:

“Buck there's nothing I want more than to look at you, touch you, I just—please can I— _please_ Bucky, it's all I want, just, I can't pick up where we left off, I don't know what to do—”

“Hang on, slow down, left off _when?”_

“You know, before...when we... _before...”_

Steve's goddamn lucky Bucky knows him so well, given he can never seem to say what he means.

“Oh, are we talking about that all of a sudden? Are we done pretending that never happened? _Good,_ because I'm real sick of thinking I just imagined it all—”

“Bucky I'm sorry—”

“Don't be sorry, fuck, I don't want your pity. I know what I look like, it's fine, it's—hang on, back up”—Bucky's rewinding all of a sudden, could have sworn Steve said—“You want to...look at me? Touch—Steve you said _touch._ That doesn't make sense, you—you can't _stand—”_

“Buck, I'm so sorry, I know it doesn't make sense. I should have explained ages ago but I didn't know how—I still don't—something's wrong with me, the way I want things it's not—I'm the one that's unnatural, Buck, not you—”

Steve looks so pained and helpless and embarrassed and suddenly Bucky realizes, he'd never thought—

“What, you need some kind of freaky shit now, Rogers? What kind of coward do you take me for, think I can't handle some—some weird shit or something, I—I mean I don't have a lot of experience but I'm not picky really, we can—or we could—God, but you're gonna have to tell me, Stevie, or—or draw me a picture, for fuck's sake—”

Shit, this can't be right, Steve's looking more and more distraught—if Bucky could just _go to him_ but he'll only back away further and his heart just can't take it—

“Bucky, stop, that's not it at all, God—listen, I don't need _any_ shit, okay? Freaky or otherwise, I don't want anything, any of it. I can't be with you that way. I'm sorry. You deserve—I want you to have— _Buck—_ I've tried, I just—I don't like it. I don't want it. And you—you deserve everything, Bucky—I can't. You deserve the world and I can't give you what you want. Or would want, if we—Buck, I'm so sorry. It's not the arm, or the scars, it's not any of that, fuck you're so beautiful, Bucky you're perfect—I don't want to make a promise I can't keep. I love you with my whole soul and I'd give my life just for the chance to lay my head on your shoulder like I used to do but instead I've been using you, keeping you here because I can't bear to have you out of my sight even though I know you deserve more and you'll want more, just as soon as you're well enough and I guess that time is now and I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, please go and be happy and take my heart with you, please, I won't need it when you're gone.”

Steve falls to his knees and puts his face in his hands and Bucky just—for a second he just blinks like—

And then in an instant he's on the floor and his knees are up against Steve's, he's got his left arm tucked away behind his back but with his right he reaches up to pry Steve's hands off his face, gentle as can be, careful not to hurt him—

“Steve. _Steve Steve Steve._ Stevie. Sweetheart. I don't understand. I knew—I knew all of that—everything you said, I knew that before, and I still—I don't understand, love. I thought something had changed.”

Steve keeps ducking his head and looking away so Bucky strokes carefully along the side of his face, tucks his hair behind his ear, tilts his chin up—not with any force, just a suggestion, _hey, over here, look at me, it's okay—_

“It did change, Buck, it—you can't imagine, everything felt so different and Peggy was there and she—I don't know how to explain it”—something must show on Bucky's face because Steve's tone changes again, like he's backtracking—“don't get the wrong idea, Buck, I don't mean it like that, it's only ever been you I wanted, it's just...people would come up to me and—like they thought they owned me or something...it helped, anyway, if they thought I was taken. Gave me a little more space, plus it took my mind off you a bit, even though it wasn't real—I know that doesn't make sense...I was selling myself a story same as her, I think. I neglected to tell her any of that, though—she's none too pleased with me now...”

Steve's almost laughing but it's a sick kind of thing, strained. Bucky's mind is reeling, he can't seem to put it together—this is so like Steve, closed up tight like a vise and then _whoosh,_ everything at once.

“I'm sorry, Stevie, I'm trying to understand—help me out, would you, love? If it's not about Peggy, then—this is where I'm lost, honey, you said she was there…?”

Steve sighs and looks away; Bucky lets him this time, maybe it's easier.

“She just touched me is all, just for a second, but...you know how I've always been kind of...sensitive…”

A blush starts to creep over Steve's face; Bucky ghosts his thumb over Steve’s cheekbone and Steve's eyes flutter closed as he leans into Bucky's hand with a soft little sound and oh, _oh,_ something's clicking into place—

“I feel parched all the time, Buck, like I'm cracked open—like everywhere's an open wound but in a good way, somehow, I—”

“ _Stevie”—_ Bucky doesn't mean to interrupt but he can't help it, the way Steve's name rolls off his tongue, just a reverent whisper—“honey is that all you needed, just for me to—to be gentle? To go slow? Sweetheart, why didn't you say so, you've been—I thought you didn't want me at all—”

Bucky's the one laughing now, a little hysterical almost, so goddamn _relieved_ —but then suddenly Steve's pushing him away, scrambling up and back, leaving Bucky on the floor, bereft—

“Buck, you're not listening, that's just it—things changed both ways, what I _don't_ want got more intense, too, it's—there's limits now, Bucky, hard limits. I probably could've done it before—I would've, just for you, just to make you happy—but now...it's like I said, I'm the one that's unnatural. I don't want the things a person's supposed to want. All I ever think about is touching you, holding you...God, Bucky, you've no idea, it hurts how much I need you, but—but that's all. Just to touch, just—just like this, like you were doing just now. That's it. I don't want anything more...intimate than that, I guess, or...I don't want to do anything sexual. Ever. Not with anyone, not even...I love you so much, Bucky, but not even with you. Please forgive me, Buck, please just—please—”

Steve's breathing fast and his eyes have gone wide and a little glassy; he looks on the verge of falling apart. Bucky stands up slow, both hands visible, no threat. Never did manage to get his shirt back on, oh well.

“Stevie, hush—Steve honey, you're talking like this is a problem but I told you already, I knew—I knew that, sweetheart. I just want to be with you, I'm flexible on the details—”

“Bucky, no, I can't ask you to—you shouldn't have go without something so important. It would be wrong of me to expect—I can't do that to you—”

Bucky valiantly resists the urge to launch himself forward, knock Steve's legs out from under him and climb right on top, shake him by the shoulders until he gets over himself and his goddamn insatiable need to make everything more complicated than it has to be.

“Steve, stop. Sweetheart, please just stop, why are you being so—why do you keep talking about what I want, what I'd be giving up? How do you even know what I want in the first place, huh? You ever thought maybe I want the same things as you?”

Steve looks at him almost petulant and Bucky doesn't laugh this time but something like the feeling bubbles up and leaves him floaty.

“I know you've had—Bucky, you’ve had partners. I know you've done things.”

“Sure I have, if I liked a person and they wanted to, or expected it or something—I can take it or leave it, myself, always have been like that. Given the choice I'd go without—have gone without, actually, ever since things started getting different between us. You remember the first time I ever called you 'honey’? There's been nobody else since then. You can do the math—that's years now and I haven't minded. It's just not something I care for, particularly.”

Bucky shrugs to emphasize his point and Steve's got this absolutely stunned look in his eyes—Bucky’s heart feels too full, like it might burst out of his chest.

“You're it for me, Stevie, sex or no...and I'd prefer no, if it's all the same to you.”

He can't resist giving a little wink. Maybe it's unkind to tease, given Steve's gone all pale and shaky, but really it's his own fault for being so goddamn obtuse—

Steve looks about ready to pass out. “Can we—can we go sit down? I just need a minute...”

Fuck, seeing him like this, all soft and broken open…when he was smaller Steve was all fight so having him here, looking like he's just emptied himself out and left the pieces there for Bucky to sort through and take or discard at his leisure—it stirs something in Bucky that's a little dark, a little covetous. He reaches out with his left hand this time, an offer and a challenge in one.

After a second's hesitation, Steve sets his shoulders, steps forward and takes Bucky's hand—blue eyes on his, not so much as a flinch when they touch...flesh meets metal and Bucky feels whole again for the first time in years.

 

**

 

**BROOKLYN, NEW YORK**

**Four months later**

It's spring and they've opened all the windows, airing out the place; seems it had been sitting empty for a while before they got here.

Steve perches on a stool facing one of the blank walls in the dining room. When they first walked in he knew right away he wanted to cover it—never done a mural before, but the way the light comes in...he just knew.

The apartment's a little roomier than their old one, but not by much. They could afford bigger, if they wanted—apparently S.H.I.E.L.D pays better-than-decent wages, and rumor has it pretty soon they'll have real work to do—but they like it cozy. Never too far apart, this way...and more money for paint, besides.

Steve's twirling a brush in his hands, lost in thoughts of shape and color when there's a click of heels, another set of footsteps and then two sharp raps at the door—ah, Peggy'd said she'd be coming by to drop off some collateral.

Steve steps carefully around the paint cans and brushes laid out at his feet, and opens the door.

“Good morning, Steve. You're looking well.”

Peggy's voice is professional but her eyes are warm, almost sparkling; a knowing little smile crooks up the corner of her mouth.

Steve exaggerates looking down at his bare feet, rolled-up pant legs and paint-stained shirt.

“I'm a mess, Pegs, but thanks for saying so. You look—you look great.”

She does, too, all poise and polish but with a hint of fire behind it—it's clear the assistant she's brought with her is of the same opinion, keeps stealing glances over at Peggy and visibly sweating.

Peggy smiles wider and motions for her assistant to hand Steve the box of files. Steve takes it and glances inside—ID cards, badges, all kinds of paperwork—he'll have to sit down with Bucky later to go through it all.

“How's the new place?” Peggy asks, leaning in to look around. “At work already, I see.”

Steve doesn't have a chance to reply before there's the sound of another door opening and Bucky pads out into the hall. He's fresh out of the shower, barefoot in just his trousers, rubbing a towel over his hair. In the morning light his eyes are such a perfect gray-blue and his face is so open and relaxed—Steve feels his heart swell at the sight, and his fingers itch to put down the box and reach for Bucky's soft wet skin instead.

“Good morning, Agent Barnes,” Peggy says, then leans over to her assistant and adds in a low voice, “Close your mouth, hmm? There's a good pet.”

There's a snap and a gulp, some shuffling of feet and mumbling at the floor. Steve can relate; Bucky’s been growing his hair out lately, and bulking up some, too—helps keep his spine stable with the weight of the arm. He's breathtaking, really—and that's without the little rivulets of water dripping onto his shoulders and running down his chest.

Bucky nods to their visitors, drapes his towel over his shoulder and comes up behind Steve. His hands just barely graze Steve's hips as he peers over his shoulder.

“Whatcha got there, sweetheart?”

“Uh—files. For work.” Steve's voice comes out a little strangled; he can feel himself blushing.

“We'll leave you to it,” Peggy says brightly, snapping her fingers before addressing her once-again dazed companion: “Hurry up now, dear, haven't got all day.”

The assistant scurries off and Peggy gives Steve a wink before she turns and clicks away.

“You boys have a nice day!” she calls back in her lilting voice, just as Steve's closing the door.

Bucky finishes toweling his hair and wanders back toward his room; meanwhile Steve sets the box of files on the dining room table and sits back down in front of his mural-to-be. He's trying to recapture his train of thought, but the brush feels wrong in his hands and he can't seem to focus. Bucky, he's just so—and Peggy, she—it's great to see her doing well, of course, it's just—she just radiates this kind of comfortable sensuality, all those playful smiles and winks…Steve knows what they mean underneath and it reminds him of what he and Bucky are supposed to be—what most people would want to be doing if—

“You're looking a little thoughtful, doll. Something on your mind?”

Bucky's on his way back over, wearing a t-shirt now with his hair in a messy tie at the back. He looks so soft and perfect, Steve could cry.

“You'll get paint on you—”

“I don't mind, Stevie, long as it's yours. You gonna cover every wall?”

Steve huffs a laugh and leans back as Bucky rests his hands feather-light on Steve's shoulders. “Not if you keep distracting me, jerk.”

Bucky hums at that, like he knows Steve's bluffing. They just stay there for a moment, Steve with his eyes closed resting his head against Bucky's chest while Bucky pets and squeezes his shoulders, rhythmic, just gentle. Pleasant shivers run up and down Steve's spine.

“Would you maybe paint me sometime?” Bucky asks out of nowhere, and Steve has to laugh.

“I already paint you all the time,” he says, and it's true—he must have painted Bucky a hundred times by now. Bucky reading, Bucky cooking, Bucky doing his hair; Bucky sleeping in his bed, all splayed out like a starfish, snoring. They haven't done any nudes yet, but they're talking about it—Bucky likes the idea of Steve seeing all of him, and Steve likes that idea too, just needs the boundaries worked out, has to know it won't turn into something else.

“Paint you doing what?”

“No, paint me, like on me. Instead of the wall. Or in addition to the wall, I mean—or I could do you, if you want. It's just an idea. Only if you want to.”

Bucky leans down to kiss to the top of Steve's head and he's thinking about it now: they have all kinds of brushes, different widths and textures—the paint would go on all slick and wet but then dry, crackling, and that would be different too—and then washing it off, colors mixing in the water and running down the drain, coming out clean—

“I could rinse it off you after, too,” Bucky says just as Steve's thinking it. “You can wear some shorts you don't mind getting wet.”

Steve's surprised to feel two hot tears running down his cheeks. He sniffs and Bucky's whole demeanor changes; in an instant he's stroking up and down Steve's arm on one side and on the other, cupping his face, tilting his chin up—it's the metal hand but he's always so impossibly careful—

“Stevie, baby. Sweetheart. What's wrong? Oh, I hate to see you hurting, love. You know we don't ever have to do anything you don't want to—”

Steve tenses up and shakes his head. “It's not that, Buck”—his voice is coming out all wet and throaty, God, but he can't help it—“you're just so sweet and you're always thinking of these things and I—I just can't stop myself wondering sometimes if—if you'd be happier—”

Steve's voice gets caught up in a hitching sob but Bucky's still there, warm and solid at his back and with his hands moving so slow, stroking and soothing. Steve turns his head a little and leans his face into Bucky's palm. The metal is so cool on his skin; he can feel every minute vibration of the joints as Bucky shifts his fingers.

“Stevie. Honey. Tell me what you need, doll, I'm here. I'm—can I hold you, sweetheart?”

Steve nods and Bucky pulls away—it's only for a second but Steve gasps at the loss of contact—

“Hang on, love, hang on, I'm coming right back...there we go, that's better.”

Bucky's grabbed a matching stool from the breakfast bar so now he's sitting behind Steve, just the right height to rest his chin on Steve's shoulder and wrap his arms all the way around him.

“There now, love, can you tell me what's the matter? Let me make it better, Stevie—is this okay?”

He's nosed up next to Steve's throat, now; not exactly kissing him, just huffing and nudging his face around, letting his mouth drag over Steve's skin and breathing into his hair. It feels _so good_ , little sparks dancing up everywhere Bucky's touching.

“Yeah, Buck, that's—it's so much better than okay, sweetheart. I'm just—do you think you could—would you mind...”

He can't quite say it. Bucky goes still and hums out a breath, then whispers into his neck, “Anything for you, love, take your time. I've got you. I'm here.”

There's something about Bucky's stillness—he's not just saying that because it sounds nice. He really is here, really would wait. There's no rush.

“Do you think you could...remind me? Just tell me, what you—I mean, that you're happy here, I guess. With me. That you want what we have. If—if you do, that is—only if it's true—”

“Oh, sweetheart. Oh Steve. Of course—of course it's true.”

Bucky’s arms squeeze around Steve's chest a little tighter, and then he straightens up and leans them back a little, so Steve's head is resting right in the crook of his shoulder. His cheek is pressed into Steve's temple as he hums and murmurs, “Mmm, honey. I love holding you like this, having you all wrapped up in my arms.”

Steve feels some of the tension go out of his shoulders and Bucky hums again, sighing, “God, I love that, sweetheart, feeling you relax for me. That makes me feel so good, knowing that _you_ feel good. When you're safe and happy and I know that I made you feel that way...oh, Stevie. There's no better feeling in the world, for me. This is what I want, just this, right now. God I love you, sweetheart. I love you so much it hurts.”

Steve shudders out a breath and Bucky reaches up to catch one of Steve's tears on his thumb. He brings it to his lips and kisses it away before nosing back in to press another soft kiss to Steve's temple, then starts up talking again, his voice rumbling through Steve's body and echoing around in his head:

“Can't get enough of you, honey, just being near you like this. It's so good. Want to be touching you all the time, I'm so happy—you make me so happy, Steve. Just knowing that you want me around, want me close. Knowing you trust me to touch you like this, sweetheart, that's—”

All of a sudden it's Bucky's voice that's catching and it's so funny, how the switches flip—their roles reversing, like a dance.

Bucky's gone still again, so Steve reaches up and gently nudges Bucky’s left hand until it’s up at his throat. He tilts his head back further on Bucky's shoulder so he can rest Bucky's metal palm over his Adam's apple, then carefully splays the cool jointed fingers to cover as much skin as possible. When Bucky lets out a little moan, Steve lets go and reaches back to get his hand in Bucky's hair, pulling the tie out and twisting his fingers in.

 _“Stevie,_ ” Bucky breathes, stroking his thumb ever so slightly over Steve's pulse point—there's no pressure there, no constriction at all, just a kind of settling into place. Then Bucky's running his mouth again, all soft breathy whispers, hitching a little:

“Sweetheart. Steve. Honey you're so good to me. Wanna be with you always, just like this. Gonna be sweet on you forever, just touch you and hold you and never let go. Want them to mix our ashes together when we die, can we do that, love? Do you want that, with me?”

Bucky's got him pulled in so close, his breath in Steve's ear and his hand on his throat and there's nothing else, just his voice and his touch and Steve almost can't speak for how warm and full he feels, but he manages somehow: “Yes, Buck, yes. God yes.”

“Good, honey, me too,” Bucky murmurs. “Me too.”

The sun streams in and the breeze blows by and they've got nowhere to be, nothing to do but sit here together, souls interlaced and bodies entwined.

Steve closes his eyes and just floats, every last ounce of doubt leaving his body as lets himself be held in Bucky's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler notes: In this chapter, Bucky comes back and finds the painting Steve had left out for him, and they manage to talk out their issues, discovering that (surprise!) they each want to be in a romantic non-sexual relationship with the other. There is a soft epilogue involving affectionate non-sexual touch, verbal reassurance, and general lovey-dovey sweetness. 💖


End file.
